Women on the Home Front (59 page)

Eva put her hands up in mock surrender. ‘All right, all right, keep your hair on,' she laughed.

While Connie cleared up, Eva told her about her illness. ‘My granny had me inhaling Friar's Balsam and Mum kept me in bed for ages …' But by now, Connie was only half listening. She was thinking about her nightmare journey home from East Grinstead. She'd been totally exhausted, both physically and mentally drained and yet every time she'd tried to relax, that awful face would push its way into her thoughts. She hadn't really thought about Stan Saul for years but ever since Kenneth said his name, she could almost smell his sweaty body above her and feel his breath on her cheeks.

Eva jumped down from the table. ‘Connie, you're miles away. Something is wrong.'

‘Umm? Oh, sorry,' said Connie. ‘Go on. I am listening.'

‘No,' said Eva. ‘I can tell by your face that you've got something on your mind. Come on, out with it.'

‘I was thinking about something that happened when I was thirteen,' she began, ‘and it's not a pretty story.'

‘Go on,' said Eva uncertainly.

‘It's the reason my brother left home.'

Eva sat back on the table and gave Connie her full attention. ‘I'm listening.'

‘I was with my brother at a place called Long Furlong near Patching where we used to live and we'd met up with another lad called Stan Saul,' she said leaning against the wall. ‘Kenneth and I had been out on our bikes all day with a few other boys and girls from the village. We'd taken a primus stove and cooked some sausages in the frying pan.'

Eva smiled. ‘Nothing like cooking out of doors. Go on.'

‘Kenneth is two years older than me but Stan was already grown-up. He was seventeen and nobody could understand why he hung around with us kids all the time.'

‘Does sound a bit odd,' Eva agreed.

‘Anyway, he'd brought some bread and he had some sweets which of course made him everybody's mate that day,' Connie went on. ‘It was a lot more fun having a slice of bread to wrap around a boiling hot sausage, although it did pose a bit of a problem having to cut the slices with only Curly Bishop's penknife.' She laughed briefly.

Eva listened as she recalled what happened. She told Eva that she wasn't very happy when Stan had invited himself back to their place afterwards and was even more anxious when she'd realised that no one else was at home. Mum and Ga were out but she'd consoled herself that Pip, although still only a pup, was there to protect them.

‘That's when Stan produced the cider.'

‘Cider?' Eva remarked.

‘It was very strong and the bubbles gave me hiccups. Stan told me to “Drink up,” and he kept tipping the glass back every time I put it to my lips.' Connie put her trembling hand to her forehead as she remembered. The gathering gloom outside gave the window a mirror effect and she studied herself in the glass. The jumble in her mind was clearing and she shuddered as she remembered Stan running his tongue over his dirty teeth.

‘Connie?' Eva jumped down and put her hand on Connie's shoulder. ‘Did something awful happen?'

Connie thought of Roger again. He was a nice man but if Eva told him about Stan, would he want to write to her again? As she felt her eyes smarting, Connie pulled herself together crossly. The past was the past. She couldn't alter it and the only way it could hurt her was if she dwelt on it. Stan was out of her life forever and the chances of ever seeing him again were remote. They'd just come through a war for heaven's sake. There was a fair chance that Stan Saul had perished on the battlefield anyway. She picked up her empty laundry basket. ‘Nah,' she said brightly. ‘A silly memory of a rubbish first kiss, that's all.'

*

His mother wouldn't like it but he'd have to tell her. No point in beating about the bush. He'd come right out with it. Best way.

‘I'm changing my name, Mum.'

She almost dropped a stitch. ‘Change your name. Whatever for?'

‘I told you, didn't I? I want a new start. As soon as people hear my name, they remember what happened to my wife and they've already made up their minds, haven't they?'

She had no answer to that.

‘I'm going to use my second name instead,' he went on. ‘It might bring me better luck.'

‘Oh, son,' she said cautiously. ‘I'm not so sure it's a good idea. People are bound to think you've got something to hide.'

She saw something flicker in his eyes and his mouth took on a sinister sneer. ‘I didn't ask for your opinion, Mum,' he said coldly. ‘I told you what I'm going to do, so you'd better get used to it.'

As he left the room, he slammed the door so hard the cups rattled on the sideboard. She could feel the panic rising inside her chest. It was starting all over again, wasn't it? He hadn't changed at all.

*

Matron was doing her ward rounds and Sister had asked Connie to clean Room 1 in preparation for an incoming patient. She had spent the morning wiping the locker, the iron bedstead and the mattress with disinfectant. She'd checked the curtains on the screen and changed one of them because it had a splash of some sort on it. She'd cleaned the thermometer holder on the wall and changed the mouthwash solution. When she had finished, Sister deemed it a job well done.

As Matron sailed onto the ward, Connie was just taking a bedpan to Mrs Meyer in bed four. She whipped the curtains round and hidden from view, she dealt with her patient. Mrs Meyer was lovely. She'd come in for an operation on her stomach but when the surgeons had opened her up, they'd found out that there was nothing more they could do. They'd stitched her back up again and when she came around, told her the bad news. Mrs Meyer knew she didn't have long to live but it never seemed to dampen her spirit.

Connie had just taken the full pan from under Mrs Meyer when Matron swept the curtain aside. ‘Everything all right here?' she bellowed.

The sudden movement made Connie jump and she accidentally spilled a little urine on the bed sheet. Matron's eyes narrowed. ‘Scandalous waste of bed linen, nurse.'

‘Yes, Matron, sorry Matron.'

‘You cleaned Room 1, didn't you, nurse?'

‘Yes, Matron.'

‘Then when you've cleaned that up come and stand outside.'

When Connie had finished changing Mrs Meyer's sheet, she stood outside the door of Room 1 and waited. A minute or two later, Matron came and took a pair of white gloves out of her pocket. Putting the left one on, Matron went inside and closed the door. They could hear her moving around and then it all went quiet. A couple of seconds later she came out with her hands in the air. On the right hand, the index finger of her white glove had a black smudge on it.

‘Not good enough, nurse,' she said curtly. ‘Do it again.'

‘But where did you find it?' Connie blurted out.

‘That is for you to find out, nurse,' snapped Matron sweeping out of the ward. ‘I shall be back in one hour.'

Connie could have wept. Her face was flaming with rage. She went to the sluice room to fetch her cleaning things again. She was supposed to be off duty in half an hour.

As she hurried to Room 1 for the second time, Mrs Meyer called her over. Pulling Connie down to the bedclothes she whispered conspiratorially, ‘Don't let the old witch get to you, darling. Remember we all look the same with our knickers around our ankles first thing in the morning.'

Connie laughed and somehow that thought kept her going as she began again.

*

The reporter yawned. Not much excitement in court today, a couple of non-payments of fines, a chap accused of harassing his ex-wife and someone being prosecuted for not having a gun licence. It was all pretty boring stuff, only fit to go on page nine and column four. What he wanted was a page two or three piece or better still, a juicy front page story.

The last case of the day involved a gypsy. Who cares about gypsies, he thought as the boy stood in the dock, and then he realised he'd seen him before. As the case unfolded it dawned on him that this was the kid who had been in the paper a few weeks ago. He was the do-gooder who had been helping people out in the cold weather. Helping himself more like. The headlines were already turning over in his head.
Good neighbour turns bad.
That sounded quite good. Or, bearing in mind the boy's name, how about,
Light-fingered Light.

Isaac Light stood glum-faced in the dock as the judge passed sentence. ‘You will go to prison for six months.'

He had expected no less; after all, the police had found some stolen items, a pearl necklace and a valuable ring, in his caravan. The prosecution made much of the fact that there was other stuff missing and even though the police had searched the caravan thoroughly, it was still missing. Isaac was told to come clean and say where it was if he wanted a lighter sentence but how could he? He hadn't stolen it in the first place. Everything seemed very circumstantial until the crown produced its most damning piece of evidence, eighty-six pounds they'd found under the floorboards. ‘No doubt the proceeds from your ill-gotten gains,' the judge decided as he confiscated it for police funds. ‘Take him down.'

His father, Reuben, had leapt to his feet to shout but instead struggled to control his cough. As Isaac was escorted down the steps, the reporter's lip curled. The old man was in no fit state to look after himself. It was obvious to everyone in the courtroom that he was on his last legs. Another man, vaguely familiar but the reporter couldn't place him, was sitting next to the old man.

‘I'm innocent, Dad,' Isaac called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I didn't do nothing.'

There was another case coming up but the reporter dashed out to get to the telephone and the news desk. With a bit of luck, the story of Light-fingered Light would be in the morning paper.

The other spectators in court shrugged and exchanged sceptical looks as Isaac called out from below the dock but Reuben was a broken man. Everyone in his family cut corners and bent the rules a bit, but this was the first time anyone had been jailed for theft.

‘It wasn't him,' he croaked.

Sitting next to him, the Frenchie patted his back. ‘I, for one, don't believe it either, Reuben,' he whispered and the old man looked up at him with hope in his eyes.

Connie had the weekend off and on her way back home, she planned to post another letter to Roger. He'd only written a couple of times but she wasn't too worried. He'd told her in one of his letters that he wasn't very good at letter writing.

As soon as she walked in the door, the family showed off their new telephone. It had been a mammoth task to persuade Ga to have it installed and Connie was thrilled.

‘We'll be able to take orders over the phone now,' said Gwen.

‘A great deal of expense for nothing if you ask me,' Ga murmured.

‘It's time to join the twentieth century, Ga,' Connie said light-heartedly and was rewarded with a cold stare.

Connie had hardly settled in the door before Clifford wanted her to come and see Reuben. To her surprise, the old man wasn't in his caravan in Titnore Lane. Clifford took her instead to the Frenchie's workshop. Eugène opened the rickety door and stepped back to let them in. He looked as handsome as ever and Connie's heartbeat quickened as soon as she saw him. He smiled and held his arm out to indicate where Reuben was. Connie looked up and saw the old man lying on an old horsehair sofa at the back.

‘What's he doing here?' she asked. She hurried to him and touched his forehead. It was cold and clammy. His skin was grey and he was struggling to breathe. She listened with mounting horror as Clifford told her about Isaac going to jail and the police search of his caravan. ‘I'm really annoyed that they did nothing to help him,' said Clifford. ‘They must have seen the state the old boy was in.'

‘Then it's a good job he has friends nearby,' said Connie, taking Reuben's pulse.

‘That was all down to Pip,' said Clifford. ‘He kept sloping off and we couldn't find him for hours. Then a couple of nights ago we could hear this dog howling in the distance. Mandy knew it was him straight away so I went to look for him.'

‘No sign of Kez and the others then?' said Connie.

‘Moved on some time ago.' Clifford shook his head. ‘I found Pip outside Reuben's canvas tent howling his head off. If I hadn't turned up, the poor man would have been dead by now. He hadn't even had a drink for God knows how long.'

‘But Kez usually turns up this time of year,' said Connie, clearly puzzled.

Clifford nodded. ‘And when someone's ill, somehow or other, they all turn up from nowhere but not this time. With Isaac locked up, the poor old boy was on his own. He refused to let us take him to the doc. We didn't know what to do for the best.'

Reuben's eyes were fixed on the wooden wall and it didn't take Connie long to realise he was staring between the planks where the daylight made its watery way inside. His chest sounded awful and she could see that he had been coughing up blood. One thing was obvious. He couldn't stay here. The Frenchie stood beside him with his hands in his pockets and chewing his lip anxiously. Connie willed her heart not to pound so when he was so near.

‘Eugène, I know you mean well,' Connie began, ‘but we really must get him to hospital.'

‘He knows he is dying,' Eugène said quietly. ‘He doesn't want to be indoors.'

Connie moved a little closer to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘I'm afraid he has no choice,' she said. ‘There's nothing I can do and especially not here.'

Eugène shook his head. ‘But I promised.'

‘The authorities will make it difficult for you if he dies here,' Connie went on. ‘They may decide that your failure to get him medical help is neglect … or something far worse. After all, you have no written proof that this was his wish, and Reuben won't be around to explain.'